


Moonlight & Roses

by tilla123



Series: Wedding Bell Blues [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 10:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18569869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilla123/pseuds/tilla123
Summary: A romance begins . . . or does it?





	1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimers apply. The boys aren't mine, though I might wish they were. They belong to someone else entirely - Rysher & Company, I believe owns a piece of them along with Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis. They're the lucky ones. I'm merely borrowing them for a time and will return them when done, unharmed and unchanged. This is PG13, very mild m/m implications, but nothing strenuous. Sorry 'bout that folks; I don't do explicit sex - that's better left to the experts.

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There was a long narrow box sitting directly in front of the door to his apartment when he arrived home from work that night. It was a very long and very narrow box, done up all in white with gold ribbons crossing it like the bandoleers on a soldier's uniform and though he ordinarily made a habit of noticing anything out-of-the-ordinary about his dwelling, on that night he was more than a trifle distracted. So distracted, in fact, he very nearly trod on the box, smashing its contents flat. Almost, but not quite, for at the last possible minute the light from the hallway fell just so and the gleam from the ribbons caught him full in the eyes. So, instead of taking that final, fatal step the young man bent and picked up the box hunting here and there for the card he was sure must have been dropped by the deliveryman.  
There was no card. There was nothing at all to hint either at the sender or the intended recipient, but when the young man opened the box he was quite certain a mistake had been made. Inside was one very perfect, very red long-stemmed rose. He laughed. "Bloody hell," he snorted indelicately. "Deliveryman's mixed it up again." He trotted next-door, as he had numerous times in the past when the deLancie's orders had been confused with his own. They had a daughter, a pretty young thing given to much flirtation. Undoubtedly, one of her beaus had sent the rose and mixed up the address.  
He knocked on the door and when Madame de Lancie opened it, he shoved the box at her and said curtly, "I think this is for Jeanette. Somebody's left it by mistake at my door," then turned and fled back to his own apartment leaving the matron standing in the doorway in a most puzzled state indeed. Jeanette, of course, was thrilled to have received flowers from an unknown admirer. She rather fantasized perhaps her handsome neighbor might have sent them himself and been too shy to admit it. Jeanette was something of a romantic.  
A week later, the scene was repeated and again the week after that. By the fourth week, Adam was growing more than a little annoyed. "Madame de Lancie," he pleaded when he had delivered the fifth box to Jeanette's door, this one containing not one rose but six. "I do wish your daughter all the best in whatever romantic entanglement she has found herself, but do you think, please, she might let the lad know she lives at 2B rather than 2D?" Jeanette's suitor was either growing bolder or more desperate and Adam wished, sincerely, the fellow would leave a note so the girl would know whom to thank and thus eliminate his role in this drama.  
Madame deLancie only smiled and patted his cheek affectionately. Such a nice young man he was with such very lovely hazel eyes and the dark hair against that fair skin. Even an old woman such as she found him extraordinarily attractive, despite being so thin. He seemed intelligent and a most studious young man as well. His position at the library was not the most well-paid such a young man might find, but she had no doubt he would work his way up to chief researcher in short order and then the prestige, if not the francs, would surely come.  
"Ah monsieur Pierson," she sighed. "If only the roses were for Jeanette." She sighed again and glanced coyly at him from under her l ashes. Older she might be, but she could still flirt with an attractive young man. Jeanette had not come by her charms unaided.  
Adam gaped, then glanced at the apartment across the hall. "2C, then? Madeline?" Madame shook her head.  
"Non, monsieur. When the delivery was made today, I was attendent. I made it my business to be you see. You have been so kind to disrupt your own schedule to bring such joy to my Jeanette, I thought to myself 'Self, you must discover who the young man is who is sending the flowers, such lovely flowers they are, too. You must discover who this person is so monsieur Adam does not need to continue to upset himself . . ."  
Monsieur Adam tried desperately to stem the flow of words lest he be drowned in the torrent, but to no avail. On and on the woman prattled of how she had waited patiently, knowing there would be a delivery today and when it arrived how she had accosted the young man who had left the box.  
Adam could feel his eyes beginning to glaze, his fingers beginning to tingle. His sword was inside the lining of his coat and he could feel the burning in his soul that warned him he was going to have to use it and soon. Some sparring with MacLeod should work off the excess energy as well as the mental frustration. Madame deLancie continued her tirade and Adam continued to tune her out, nodding politely whenever she paused for breath until, suddenly, something she said struck him with enough force to penetrate the block wall he had erected.  
"I beg your pardon," he said almost breathlessly, running his prodigious memory in reverse until he caught one or two of the syllables that had so startled him. "You actually found the fellow who's been sending the flowers?" Madame smiled sweetly.  
"Mais non, petit," she replied. "But I did discover for whom they were sent." She smiled again. Such a lovely young man. No wonder the gentleman who ordered the flowers was enthralled; who would not be? Her smile grew wider at the obvious confusion her remark had generated. "Pauvre petit innocent," she murmured stroking his cheek and making the young man blush furiously. "They are for you."  
Consternation darkened the hazel eyes as Adam stepped back. The woman was mad, there was no doubt. Who in the name of all the gods would be sending him flowers? Unless . . .  
Adam was seized with a sudden inspiration. A joke! Surely this was a terribly crude and tasteless jest and when he found the perpetrator all hell would break loose. Meek, mild Adam Pierson would vanish and Death would ride again.  
The next week, he found a larger box outside his door. Peeking hurriedly down the hallway to make absolutely certain no one was watching, he dragged the thing inside and opened it up. A full dozen crimson blossoms stared back at him. He blanched and dropped the box as though it contained live scorpions rather than blooms. The following week, another dozen roses arrived and two days later yet another. His apartment was taking on the appearance of a low-scale funeral home, but short of tossing the things in the garbage he didn't see what could be done about it.  
So it went for nearly a month. Adam approached his apartment now with trepidation rather than pleasure. What had been a refuge, a place of solace and quiet, had become a prison. He feared leaving his rooms in the morning, wondering if his unknown 'admirer' might be stalking him. He feared returning in the evening to find what? Perhaps the madman would be waiting with something deadlier than flowers and though any death short of losing his head would be temporary, it might also prove embarrassing. How would one explain to one's neighbors one's return from an undoubtedly violent and probably messy death? He s huddered at the thought.  
Eventually, though, the delivery of the flowers ceased. Adam came home from the library and found nothing. Mild, yet surprising, disappointment lodged itself within his chest and he glanced around to be certain the box had not been mislaid somehow. It had not. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and laid down his backpack and books.  
He had just started the water running for his shower and stepped out of his jeans when he heard a pounding on the door and felt a wash of Presence. Searching for a robe would take time he obviously did not have, so he caught up his sword and turned off the water. The pounding grew more insistent and Adam rushed to the door clad only in a pair of blue boxer shorts. Whoever wanted his head must want it badly indeed to announce himself so boldly. He flung open the door and stepped back, sword at the ready. Challenge met and answered, he swung and stopped the swing barely in time.  
Duncan stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. The olive complexion blazed crimson under the tan as he stared at the figure before him. Tall, slender, pale skin gleaming like polished marble in the moonlight streaming through the windows, Methos was the most beautiful sight he had never seen.  
"You never called," the Highlander whispered shakily. "I'd planned for dinner and the theatre, but you never called to say 'yes' or 'no'. I was worried."  
Adam, Methos as he was known to some, stared back. "I beg your pardon? What's this about dinner, MacLeod?" His tone was a trifle sharper than he had intended and the man before him drew a harsh breath and backed away.  
"I see," was all he said before he turned and started down the hallway. Only to be stopped cold by Madame deLancie who, having heard the commotion, could hardly be blamed for putting herself into the middle of it.  
"Ah," she cried, clutching the 'pauvre petit's' admirer by one of his well-muscled biceps. "You are mon petit Adam's secret lover, n'est pas?" The Scot blushed and stammered a hasty negative.  
Methos stood in the doorway, oblivious to his own state of near undress and listened raptly to the exchange. Duncan was struggling manfully to extricate himself from Madame's clutches, but short of knocking the woman unconscious there was little help for him. At last, Madame drew forth a small box from within one of the large pockets in her apron. "This was delivered today, monsieur," she said holding the box up for both men to see. "It is from a very fine jeweler's monsieur and the boy requested I take possession of it until Monsieur Pierson should arrive home from work. It would have been a shame to lose such a valuable item, would it not?"  
Duncan and Adam both nodded and reached for the box at almost the same instant. Their hands met and held, each man staring into the other's eyes for what seemed a very long time. Madame deLancie smiled again and released the box.  
"Come in, Duncan," Adam said in a soft whisper. "I think we need to talk." The Highlander nodded, confused by the sudden change in his friend but altogether willing to see what else might have changed between them. Since Byron's death, he had had a number of disturbing, for him, thoughts and fantasies about the man before him. Thoughts he had, heretofore, entertained only about women, and very special women at that. That Methos should have crept so blatantly into his dreams had upset him in the beginning, but now he found it almost refreshing. He woke in the mornings after such dreams revitalized and eager to greet the day, eager until he realized Methos would not be there to share it with him.  
Talk was not all the two accomplished that night and the narrow bed beneath the window proved more than adequate for them both. Duncan woke in the early morning light, revitalized and eager to greet the day, even more eager when he realized, this morning, Methos would be there to share it with him.  
Mrs. DeLancie never regretted the slight deception she had practiced on her young neighbor. The earring inside the box looked quite well on him and the bronzed god she had accosted in the hallway looked quite well with him, too. A most enchanting couple, she thought somewhat smugly. Most enchanting indeed.


	2. Moonlight & Roses - Second Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few minor bumps along the way

Madame deLancie stopped her young neighbor in the hallway about two weeks after the 'incident of the box'. That was how she chose to refer to that most blessed of events, even in her own mind. Even now she could not be sure exactly what she had been thinking when the delivery boy left the tiny package unguarded at Monsieur Adam's door, but she had been determined to see no harm came to it. So, being the thoughtful soul that she was, she had picked it up and placed it in her apron, fully intending to present it to the young man when he arrived home from his work that evening. It had been most unfortunate indeed that said young man had not arrived home until quite after dark and Madame had forgotten all about the tiny box still in her apron pocket.  
Forgotten until she heard that most regrettable pounding on Monsieur Adam's door and the hasty words spoken by both the young man and his would-be-lover. She had peeked out her own door and been more than a little startled by the dark good looks of the man turning away from the door. Perhaps the same 'tall, good-looking gentleman with the long dark hair' who had sent the flowers for so long a time? She had found, one day only and that only three days before the flowers stopped arriving, a card dropped in the hallway where the largest box to date had been left. It had not occurred to her at the time to deliver it to Adam; he had seemed to want to forget the entire incident. The message on the card had been very brief. "Dinner this Friday?" it had said in a bold flowing script with a telephone exchange in the same bold hand. There had been no signature, as though whoever had left it assumed dear Adam would either recognize the writing or had already guessed who had sent the flowers.  
"Ah, mon petit," madame chirped as she lay a firm hand upon Adam's left wrist. No gentle flower, she. The young man froze in his tracks, a pink flush suffusing the hollowed cheeks. Such a pretty young man and such fine bones she thought. "You are happy, non?" Madame stared pointedly at the diamond stud he wore, stroking his wrist and smiling brightly. The child flushed again and stammered a reply. Madame laughed gaily, a sound like the brook near Sainte Germaine bubbling over the rocks, patted his arm once more for luck and watched in amusement as he fled, once again, into his room.  
The door slammed and Adam Pierson sagged against the frame. Gods, he was going to have to move again! He'd given up his flat near the university after the SHAPIRO AFFAIR. Even now he referred to the debacle which had nearly resulted in both Dawson and MacLeod being 'executed' and Adam Pierson exposed as an Immortal in big, capital letters. That sordid tangle had been but one of many 'turning points' in his relationship with MacLeod. Duncan had said 'You're one of us or one of them," and Adam had taken it to heart - after about six weeks of racking his brain trying to find another option. He had asked for, and been granted, leave to 'sort out the tangle' his thoughts and emotions were in after the disaster among the Watchers, had traipsed off to Tibet to meditate and when he returned had turned in his resignation. The Watchers had not been happy.  
For no one else would he even have considered giving up what had been a 'safety net' of sorts, a way to keep abreast of other Immortals and thus keep himself safely out of the Game. It had had the added bonus of allowing him the opportunity to 'adjust' his Chronicles, making it even less likely anyone would associate Adam Pierson with Methos.  
After Bordeaux, however, he had wanted nothing more than to return to that haven and it had been closed to him. Even Dawson's favored status was not enough to reopen those doors. For weeks he had wavered between the urge to disappear once more and the urge, equally strong, to strangle the damned Scot who had dragged him into this trouble. In the end, he had done nothing.  
Now, Madame deLancie accosted him at every turn, demanding to know 'if he was happy.' What could he say? Yes, Madame, deliriously? Non, Madame, Duncan is a cad who beats me without mercy but I am too much a coward to leave him? What the hell did the woman want?  
Madame deLancie, he thought grimly, was taking a most intensely personal interest in this affair; so much so, in fact that MacLeod now refused to enter the hallowed halls of Les Jardins, which, of course like most such places, had not a garden in sight. Every time he had arrived to gather up his 'young' lover, Madame had stopped him in the hallway to inquire how he and 'le petit' were getting on. Once, she had gone so far as to hint they might find it more 'comfortable' if they set up housekeeping together. It was then Duncan had stopped coming to the apartment, insisting instead, Methos meet him wherever they had arranged to go or come to the barge so they might arrive together.  
He ducked into the bath, stripped off his clothes, started the shower running and stepped inside. He wet his hair, squeezed a generous amount of shampoo into one hand and proceeded to lather up.  
At that precise moment, the phone rang in the other room and a heavy pounding began on the door. Adam swore vehemently in seven different languages, all of them dead, scooped up his sword and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then, went to answer the door. It was MacLeod.  
"Methos," the Scot stammered as the slender Immortal swung open the door.  
"Duncan," the oldest living Immortal gasped as he saw his lover in the doorway. "Your timing is truly impeccable." He grabbed his lover by the arm and dragged him bodily indoors. "How did you get past Madame?"  
Duncan grinned. "I got Amanda to call her and ask for your number, pretending to be my 'wife'. I imagine Madame was outraged. I imagine she'll be dropping by any moment to warn you about me." The Scot seemed ecstatic at the way his little ploy had worked. The phone, however, was still ringing and Methos jerked the receiver off the hook.  
"Hello," he said, shouting somewhat over the noise of the shower. "Yes . . .Non, Madame," he wailed, clutching his chest. "You must be mistaken. I am quite sure monsieur MacLeod is a single gentleman, at least for the time being." MacLeod was gasping for breath as he watched Adam's performance. "Yes, Madame," Methos said with a perfectly straight face. "He's here now, on one knee." He motioned to Duncan who quickly dropped to the required position, wrapping his arms about his lover's long legs then sliding up around the narrow hips. "But, of course Madame, right away. Yes, Madame. Non, not to worry." Methos suppressed a chuckle as he hung up the phone and winked. "One, two, three . . .Perhaps you'd better stand up, Mac?" He pulled at the Scot who refused to budge and instead clung to his slender lover all the tighter. Methos could feel the towel slipping and gripped it more firmly.  
There came a tapping on the chamber door and Methos shouted, "Come in, Madame!" Madame did just that and stopped in shock at the scene before her. There stood her young neighbor, fresh from the shower, the most despicable Scotsman clutching poor Adam about the hips and threatening to divest him of the one thing between cher Adam and immodesty, his towel. It was obvious to Madame, Adam was in desperate straits and nearly frantic to free himself from the grip of the mad Scot. And so, Madame being the good neighbor she was, endeavored to assist.  
Twenty minutes later, Methos was applying cold compresses to Duncan's skull and waving smelling salts, provided by Madame, under his nose. Duncan moaned, blinked and drew Adam down for a searing kiss.  
"You know, Methos," the Scot groaned when they both came up for air. "I do believe your neighbor is right. We'd both be more comfortable if you moved in. Will you?"  
"Will I what, Duncan," Methos queried solicitously.  
"Move in," the Scot replied. "Live with me. This isn't a proposal or anything," he said hurriedly, forestalling another question by his lover. Methos lay a gentle finger across the Highlander's lips and nodded.  
"Be quiet, Duncan," he said softly, "and kiss me."  
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was only too happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rysher, Panzer & Davis stopped playing with the boys ages ago. However, since I've no wish to be sued, I shall continue to give credit where due. I believe they created them; I'm only playing

**Author's Note:**

> Started this many moons ago and then my computer crashed. While I'm waiting for Thor and company to start talking again, figured maybe the Rysher lads might have gotten their act together and let me know how things are going with them. Fingers crossed


End file.
